


Not All Those Who Wander

by Sophia_the_Scribe



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Northern Rangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 04:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16569950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_the_Scribe/pseuds/Sophia_the_Scribe
Summary: In which four rangers gather to discuss important matters, Barliman Butterbur has a good heart but doesn't really understand, and Daisy the Barmaid meets an old acquaintance she never thought to see again.





	Not All Those Who Wander

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Barliman Butterbur, the Prancing Pony, or Strider. I only own Heavyhand's name, not his character. I do own Sharpeye and Quickdraw, and the mentioned Archer. I also own Daisy the hobbit-lass.

Business was quick that evening at the Prancing Pony, and Barliman Butterbur was pleased. The rain falling in torrential sheets outside enticed most of the town’s evening strays to wander in for some warm beef stew and a pint—and most of those stayed for more than just one.

The bell at the front desk jingled again; someone else was wanting food or a bed or some such comfort out of the weather.

“Daisy, lass!” Barliman called to his newest barmaid, a young hobbitess from a family of farmers who lived between Bree and Staddle with ambitions to Make Something of Herself. “Fill these gentlemen’s tankards while I see to the door, there’s a good girl.”

“Yes, Master Butterbur,” Daisy replied.

Barliman waded through the mass of patrons until he could finally see the entryway—and pulled up short. No civilized and ordinary Breelander stood there—but two Rangers.

Barliman shifted uneasily, wishing he had to hand his sturdy cudgel from behind the bar. But there’s naught for it but for an innkeeper to help all his customers, whether he likes the look of them or not, so he squared his much-shorter-than-theirs shoulders and marched forward.

“What can I do for you?” he asked curtly.

The nearest, an inch or so taller than the other and with piercing grey eyes that made Barliman swallow thickly, turned toward him and said quietly,

“A room for the night, if you please, Master Innkeeper, as well as dinner. And some information, if you’re willing.”

“Room and vittles I can do,” Barliman returned, and, clenching his hands tightly behind his back, added, “But information depends on what about and what you’ll be doing with it.”

The other Ranger smoothly interjected here, with an easy smile—easier, in fact, than Barliman had ever seen a Ranger smile.

“Only information on our own kind, good sir. Have you seen Strider or Heavyhand recently?”

“Too recently,” Barliman muttered, adding out loud, “Aye. In point of fact, they’re here right now.”

The Rangers exchanged indecipherable looks, and then the taller spoke again.

“We will go up to their room now, and share it for the night, if you don’t mind. And if you could bring dinner up to us in perhaps an hour, we would be appreciative.”

“I’ll do so.”

The shorter Ranger reached into the moneybag hanging from his belt and with another smile handed over the proper coins for dinner and a bed for him and his companion.

Suddenly someone squealed from behind Butterbur. He whirled around to see Daisy with her hands pressed to her mouth.

“Quickdraw!” she cried, with wide eyes. Barliman stepped in front of her—no serving-lass of his would be taken by Rangers, that’s for sure!—but she sidestepped him, blinked her big eyes up at the tall Man, and gave a tentative grin.

“Hullo, Daisy,” the shorter Ranger—apparently Quickdraw—said with yet another smile. “Doing all right?”

She nodded mutely, and the two Men inclined their heads before leaving in search of their comrades. Barliman turned to Daisy.

“What was that about, Daisy? How do you know those men?”

“Well, sir,” she began, “when I was but a wee lass, I wandered off from home. My da was working in the fields, and my mum was sick with my little brother, you see. Apparently I got pretty far, though, and Quickdraw was passing by, saw me, and brought me back. He was alone that time, I don’t know the other one. But…” and here she paused a little, screwing up her face in concentration, “I think he’s called Sharpeye? At least, all the neighbors back home say Quickdraw and Sharpeye are seen together more often than apart.”

Barliman wrinkled his brow. That did, at least, seem to fit. Strider and Heavyhand were usually seen together these days, after all, though in the past Strider had sometimes disappeared for long intervals and Heavyhand travelled alone, or with Archer. But he wasn’t sure about the rest of the story. Why would a Ranger take the time to bring some wandering hobbit-lass back to her family? He must have been hoping to get something out of it. Everyone knew Rangers were trouble.

“Well, Daisy, back to work,” was all he said, “we’ve got lots of customers to tend to. Let the Rangers be for a while.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied smartly, and moved back toward the bar. 

* * *

An hour later, Barliman was carrying a large tray loaded with vittles for four up the stairs to the Rangers’ room. He balanced it on one hand to knock briskly, and at the returning “Enter!” opened the door and peered inside. Despite being out of the weather and in a comfortable room in an inn, none of them had shed more than their sodden cloaks, which they had hung to dry on the bedposts. Without them, all four of the Men looked even taller, thinner, and stragglier.

Despite the room’s ragged occupants and the smell of unwashed clothes and bodies that made itself evident when Barliman stepped through the doorway, however, he got the strangest feeling, as his foot crossed the threshold, of entering an important council meeting in a great hall in some far-off land. Strider was seated in the room’s sole chair, chin cradled in his hand and elbow propped on the armrest. Heavyhand stood at his right shoulder, arms crossed. Sharpeye was leaning against the wall smoking a pipe, and Quickdraw perched on the side of the bed, polishing a long bright sword.

Four heads had turned to the door upon his entry, and eight piercing grey eyes followed his movements as he stepped inside. He swallowed thickly, blinked to clear himself of the strange feeling of awe—they were only Rangers, who were after all just ruffians—and set the tray of food on the side bench.

“Vittles for four,” he muttered gruffly.

Strider nodded and said politely, “Thank you, Master Butterbur.”

Feeling as though he were intruding and annoyed by the feeling, Barliman nodded jerkily and retreated from the room, closing the door sharply behind him. He paused a moment, listening.

“Pass some of that bread here, brother,” Quickdraw’s voice said, “I’ve had naught all day.”

“Have a care!” Heavyhand interrupted sharply. “Even doors have ears.”

Barliman started and fled.

* * *

The next morning, Barliman was up before the break of dawn, as always, and woke to find the Rangers already in his common room, speaking in low voices from around the banked fire, its pallid red glow casting curious shadows on their faces and clothes

“Something for breakfast?” he called from behind the bar. The four fell silent and Heavyhand detached himself from the group, making his way toward Barliman, his face illuminated despite its low hood by the lamp in the innkeeper’s hand.

“Quick and filling, if you please, Master Butterbur,” the dour-faced ranger said. “We leave before sunrise.”

Barliman nodded and turned toward the kitchen. The Men resumed their low-voiced conversation. Within ten minutes he brought out cold ham, bread and cheese, a pat of butter and pot of jam, several hard-boiled eggs, and a flagon of milk and set it on the table nearest the Rangers. They nodded silently in thanks and sat down. Barliman retreated to the kitchen to prepare for the day. A few minutes later Daisy wandered in, yawning and stretching, and splashed her face with cold water from the pail on the sill. She wiped her face with the hand towel and turned to smile brightly at Barliman.

“Good morning, Master Butterbur!”

“’Morning, lass,” he returned. “Them Rangers are off quick this morning; why don’t you go strip their room early and start to washing? Mrs. Butterbur’s got the water heating already.”

“Yes, sir,” Daisy chirped, but paused on the threshold. “Are they gone already, then?” she continued hesitantly.

“Eating breakfast, but they will be soon enough.”

“Oh.” She bit the corner of her lip. “Could I…maybe…”

Barliman sighed. “Aye, go on, then. Say good-bye to Quickdraw proper and quick-like, and then be a good girl and don’t disturb them anymore.”

She smiled happily and moved to the common room. Barliman edged out of the kitchen and began wiping mugs behind the bar, keeping one eye and ear on the conversation between the little hobbit barmaid and the tall, ragged, straggly-haired ruffians.

Daisy crept up tentatively. “Quickdraw?” she said quietly.

The tall man turned toward her and blinked, giving a small smile. “Yes, young one?”

“Just wanted to say farewell and…and…safe travels and good weather,” she squeaked. She gave a half-curtsey and fled.

“Thanks, Daisy,” Quickdraw called right as she slipped out the door. She paused to smile back at him, and was gone. The Ranger chuckled, and Strider—the only other one whose face Barliman could see—gave a half-smile along with him.

Then the moment passed, the four Men shared another indecipherable look, packed what was left of their breakfast into packs they then slung onto their backs, and strode out into the yard barely lit with a hint of the dawn to come.

Barliman surreptitiously sidled over to the window that looked out on the yard, saw Strider and Heavyhand clasp arms with Sharpeye and Quickdraw, and watched all four melt away into the shadows.

He heard a sigh from behind him. “They’re gone, then?” Daisy asked.

“Aye,” Barliman replied, adding under his breath, “and good riddance.”

“Oh well.” Daisy hopped over to grab the pot of soap from the washstand. “Until next time, then, I suppose,” she said to herself, and smiled.


End file.
